


jeu de rôle

by Germinal



Category: Les Misérables (2012), Les Misérables - All Media Types, Les Misérables - Schönberg/Boublil, Les Misérables - Victor Hugo
Genre: Canon Era, Consent Play, Established Relationship, M/M, PWP, Pastiche, Roleplay, Sexual Fantasy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-03-01
Updated: 2014-03-01
Packaged: 2018-01-03 12:33:52
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,112
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1070519
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Germinal/pseuds/Germinal
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Enjolras has masochistic fantasies about being roughed up and gang-banged by the National Guard. Grantaire indulges him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	jeu de rôle

Neither of them feel quite able to explain their particular dynamic, and they make sure to keep it from their friends and acquaintances. This is something kept between the two of them – something almost separate from the real world, in which they can indulge things they would shudder to suggest in reality. The more or less inexplicable nights they spend together are an unspoken secret, and equally inexplicable are the moments where, on the verge of sleep, they tell each other stories. These moments begin, with Enjolras and Grantaire not meeting each others’ eyes, with whispered promises or threats of the next time, of the parts they might be more comfortable playing, and with talk of roles other than those in which they are used to seeing each other.

On this particular evening Grantaire, turning over under the covers, seeks out his partner’s gaze. 

"How would you like me, then, Enjolras? You know I’d do anything, in any role you might devise. So tell me – shall I be the beggar at your feet tonight, your devoted acolyte?"

Enjolras darts his gaze away, shaking his head. "Not on this occasion – _au contraire_."

A grin plays at Grantaire’s lips. "Oh? Come then, let’s hear it – what shall we pretend, this time? If you don’t wish me to play your slave tonight, shall I play your equal – or your conqueror?"

Enjolras fixes him with a serious look that doesn’t quite hide his excited anticipation. He licks his lips and looks up.

"Grantaire, if you’ll indulge me – "

"When do I not? When do we not indulge each other? Would you like to submit right away, Enjolras – or would you like to resist, and to let yourself be overcome?"

Enjolras looks down. "If you’ll indulge me, I’d like you to play my ruin – or the architect of it. I’d like to play-act my disgrace, my defilement – not as anything approaching reality, but only as a shared fantasy between us. Do you understand?"

"Of course. How insistent would you like it though, how rough?"

Enjolras buries his face in the pillow, surfacing to whisper "You have no idea."

"Oh? Try me. What role would you like me to play?"

"I’d like – Grantaire, imagine if I was brought before the National Guard, for some minor or major transgression? I dare say you’ve thought of it. I imagine I’d be resistant, that I’d exhaust myself in struggle, or so I’d like to think. But just say I allowed myself to be overcome – if I were brought before you, in that persona, if you were to see me helpless and bereft – just say I wanted to allow that."

Grantaire draws a breath. "So I’d be, what, in this scenario? Some kind of official – a captain or sergeant? Making you subject to interrogation?"

"Yes – after I’d been subject to preliminary attentions, of course."

"Oh, of course – so you’d be brought before me bloodied and bruised, having resisted all you could, but still having been overcome – but you’d not be quite conquered though, would you? I can just see you – exhausted, struggling, bound and gagged perhaps, but not quite broken?"

Enjolras’ breath hitches. "Yes – I’d be on my knees, I should think, with my head not quite bowed – my clothes ripped, dishevelled, perhaps my lip split –"

"The very thought," Grantaire flinches. "Shuddering though I am to think of it, in the realms of fantasy you make a highly attractive captive. And so – would you have me question you? Ask you for the names of your co-conspirators, your fellow rebels?"

"Yes. I’d resist, of course – refuse to tell you anything - "

"Of course. And If you weren’t forthcoming, I suppose, you’d like me to employ more – more direct methods of persuasion?"

Enjolras nods, his eyes fixed on the opposite wall.

“I think I’d let my men have you first,” Grantaire muses. “If you’re amenable, of course. How would you like being passed around between them, do you think – being held down and spread open and made to take cock after cock, as many as you could manage without breaking?”

Enjolras makes no attempt to disguise the way his breath catches at that, nor the way his hand is drawn beneath the bedsheets to the visible swelling between his legs. 

“You know I’d like it far more than I should,” he says, softly. “If not a participant yet, would you be an observer?”

Grantaire pauses to swallow his mouthful of wine. Left to his own devices, this is not the kind of fantasy he would necessarily entertain, and he has never quite managed to untangle the roots of its appeal for Enjolras, the reasons why Grantaire can so reliably drive him to distraction like this with a litany of imagined insults, injuries and indignities. Still, he is not about to subject the fragile wonder of their mutual enjoyment of this game to too rigorous or crude an inspection. It is what it is. 

“I can’t imagine any man of flesh and blood would miss the opportunity,” he says. “Seeing you bent over the nearest surface to hand by three or four of the Guard, with your clothing stripped away, your hands bound, your legs spread and the whole unit lining up to take their turn with your mouth or your arse? All with the aim of obtaining some scrap of useful information from you, obviously.”

Enjolras’s eyes close momentarily, as if picturing his undoing, his smile entirely unselfconscious. “Well, with my mouth occupied in that fashion, I can’t imagine I’ll have been in any condition to tell them anything by the time you have your way with me.”

“Oh, naturally you wouldn’t have given away your secrets, my inviolate martyr. And I think I’d leave them to it for a while – let them have a bit of entertainment, work out their various frustrations on you – so that when they eventually turn you over to me I fear you wouldn’t be looking your best – ” 

He reaches over to brush Enjolras’s hair back from his face, his lightness of touch at odds with the words he employs, making him shiver. 

“Bruises on your hips, I should think – and around your throat, not to mention all the traces of blood and spit and spunk all over that alabaster skin – ”

He lets his hand slip under the sheets to clutch at Enjolras’s thigh, drawing a gasp from him.

“But still immeasurably appealing, of course. So much so that I think getting some answers out of you would be the last thing on my mind.” 

He withdraws his hand as Enjolras props himself up on his elbows, giving Grantaire a conspiratorial glance. 

“All right – so shall we take it from this moment on?”

Grantaire draws a deep breath. “Very well. Would you like to be bent over, still, breathless and worn out from all the cock you’ve taken, or do you want to be on your knees, ready for what may be yet to come? Shall we try a further interrogation?”

Enjolras lifts himself from the bed, his bare skin smooth and pale in the dim light cast by the candles. Despite being half-hard he is subtly shifting into character, with his eyes stonily and sullenly fixed on the floor of Grantaire’s room and his breathing quick and shallow.

“Try it, then – and I’ll resist to the best of my ability.”

It is, Grantaire is fully aware, never truly to the best of Enjolras’s ability. If Enjolras were to employ all his strength, all his skill in combat, in this pretence at resisting, Grantaire would never find himself able to pin him against the wall after a superficial struggle and catch his wrists in one hand quite so easily. Nor would he be able to twist his captive’s wrists up against the small of his back like this, or to hold them there while he reaches for his belt and wraps it tight around them, leaving Enjolras gasping in performative outrage while he runs his tongue over his lips and lets his head fall back against Grantaire’s shoulder.

“How can you bring yourself to treat another citizen like this, _monsieur_?”

“Are you telling me how to conduct myself, traitor?” Grantaire says, sliding one knee between Enjolras’s thighs and roughly forcing his legs apart. “Do you think I don’t know how to deal with your sort?”

He presses his lips to the shell of Enjolras’s ear to whisper his lines in a parody of intimacy, feeling a pleasurable shudder run through him, before his mouth splits into a grin against the side of Enjolras’s throat. 

“Do you think I don’t know what to do with a shameless little troublemaker who’s just begging for me to show him his rightful place?” 

Breathless, Enjolras all but squirms against him as Grantaire lets his wrists drop, grips him by the scruff of his neck and shoves him to his knees. He moves to stand in front of him, one hand palming his cock, and Enjolras’s eyes widen in ill-disguised anticipation while he continues his show of defiance.

“You _bastard_ ,” Enjolras spits. “This is an abuse of your position, and I won’t comply with –”

“Then you’d better start talking and tell me what I want to know, hadn’t you?” 

He slides his free hand underneath Enjolras’s jaw and tilts his chin up until their eyes meet, a mask of righteous fury from one facing the other’s mask of languid amusement. 

“Or perhaps you'd like that mouth of yours put back to more diverting use?” 

Enjolras, looking both thrilled and appalled, makes a valiant attempt to jerk his head away. 

“What? No – no, I won’t – ”

“Oh, I think you will. Open up, now – ”

There is hardly even an attempt at reluctance in the way Enjolras parts his lips, just as Grantaire buries his hand in unruly blond curls and pulls his head forward, gasping the way he always does the instant his cock encounters the silky wet heat of Enjolras’s mouth. After a muffled sound of outrage, quickly choked off by the second thrust of Grantaire’s cock, Enjolras’s eyes fall shut and he lets Grantaire control their pace. Grantaire twists both his hands into Enjolras’s hair and holds him in place while driving his hips forward, feeling his resistance give way to accommodating pressure and warmth. 

When he looks up with wet and swollen lips, flushed cheeks and heavy-lidded eyes, the sight and sensation combined is almost too much, and before too long Grantaire is obliged to pull Enjolras’s head back by the hair to avoid finishing matters prematurely – even though on previous occasions Enjolras has more than appreciated being kept like this and made to swallow, or having Grantaire spend all over his face and hair.

Grantaire steps back. “That’s enough for now, I think. Are you ready to talk?” 

Still on his knees, Enjolras tosses him a look of complete contempt, throws back his head and spits at Grantaire’s feet. “Never.” 

Suppressing a wince on behalf of his floorboards – although they have surely seen worse – Grantaire pulls him to his feet and shoves him against the wall again. Rolling his hips with deliberation, he slides his rock-hard cock against Enjolras’s ass.

“Very well then. Tell me, did you enjoy entertaining my men earlier? By the looks of it you were good enough for me to want a taste myself.”

Pinned between him and the wall, Enjolras shivers and goes momentarily still. Grantaire reflects that this is further than they have previously gone while remaining in character, and pauses to await any sign from Enjolras of his wish to terminate the game. 

Instead, his struggling intensifies, his wrists twisting against their binding, but so does the rapid pace of his breathing and the hardness of his cock against the exploratory press of Grantaire’s palm. When Grantaire brings two fingers to his mouth and pushes them harshly between his still-swollen lips, Enjolras offers a momentary, choked-off protest and then sucks and licks at them with something akin to desperation.

Somewhere beneath the blanketing of wine that lends a welcome touch of unreality and irresponsibility to all of his proceedings, and the basic arousal for which he is hardly about to apologise, Grantaire is left to wonder at the precise satisfaction Enjolras derives from this show of involuntary submission. Given that he is a man whose only public concession to relaxation or impropriety is to leave his cravat unknotted, it is no surprise that when that marble carapace cracks in private, the release of all that pent-up pressure and power should produce a veritable flood of sometimes startling caprice. He also thinks it entirely predictable that Enjolras should only deign to obtain pleasure or relief by imagining he is being forced to it against his will, and Grantaire is never sure whether the feeling that sometimes shadows his enjoyment of this is more pity or amusement. 

Bringing his focus back to more immediately pressing matters, he pushes his fingers further into Enjolras’s mouth to feel that silky warmth clamp around them. And then he pulls his hand away, and Enjolras must know what's coming but he still flinches when Grantaire drives one and then both fingers into him, and while he crooks and scissors them Enjolras grits his teeth, sucks air in hard, the thick sweep of his eyelashes descending like a veil.

Grantaire takes a firmer grip on Enjolras’s hips and leans forward, stroking his hair back to whisper: “Shall we strike a bargain, then? Make this a decent ride for me and I might be induced to let you go free of all charges.”

His cock is in, sheathed in slick tight heat, before he receives an answer, and Enjolras’s only response is a gasp that ends in a bitten-off moan. When Grantaire starts to fuck him in earnest, dragging his head back by the hair, he is relieved to see Enjolras’s usually impassive face is, again, a blend of outrage and exhilaration, white teeth reddening his lower lip. His wrists are tense against their restraint and his fingers splay apart then clench back together hard enough to wring water from the air. 

There have been times when Enjolras’s and their common associates’ brushes with the actual law have made this kind of scenario too plausible a possibility to be uncomplicatedly enjoyed. On other occasions, it is as though he gains the lion’s share of his thrill from its very likelihood. At best, Grantaire surmises, it is a way in which Enjolras can obtain some measure of unfathomable catharsis. It is not the way Grantaire might choose to grant Enjolras pleasure, with or without the benefit of designated roles, but, in this as in so much else, he will take what opportunity comes his way. 

Enjolras glances back over one shoulder with a feverish look in his eyes, lips bitten red as wine. It is enough to make Grantaire transfer his grip to Enjolras’s cock and start to work it, sliding his other hand up over the smooth, warm planes of his hips and stomach, twisting his nipples between finger and thumb until he arches his back and screws his hips back harder against Grantaire. His lips and teeth press marks of ownership into Enjolras’s throat and shoulders. He feels Enjolras's pulse race under his lips and tongue and listens as the hitch in his breathing quickens to match it.

“You’re as good as I expected, then,” he hisses, one hand back on Enjolras’s hip while he drives his cock in and out in deep, measured thrusts. “You must be used to whoring yourself for your principles. And you know, if I didn’t know better, I’d think not every part of you entirely objects to this – ”

He tightens his grip and bites down quickly on Enjolras’s collarbone, and then he feels him shiver and spill into and over Grantaire’s hand, the muscles of his shoulders going tense and then slack with relief as he sinks forward against the wall. Grantaire is left to bring himself off with quick, shuddering strokes, one hand around his cock and the other still supporting Enjolras, spread at the small of his back. 

When he turns to face Grantaire, his eyes wide and his breathing still unsteady, Enjolras’s burning gaze has dimmed to a familiar coolness, and Grantaire, slipping the belt from around Enjolras’s wrists and massaging the feeling back into them, feels free to let his own mask drop. 

It is not until they have stumbled back to bed and are lying in the last of the candlelight, wrapped in the sheets against the room’s chill, that Enjolras drapes himself around Grantaire as though filled with a sudden resolve, urging Grantaire’s mouth to his, tangling his fingers in his hair. He stops, as usual, before Grantaire has had anywhere near enough of it, and lies back, his curls scattered across the pillow. 

“You are resolute to the end in your refusal to talk, then,” Grantaire says drowsily, propping himself on one elbow to take a final swig of wine. 

Enjolras raises his gaze to the ceiling. “I am – next time, perhaps, you’ll meet with more success, though I can guarantee at least as much resistance.” 

“A show-stopping turn from you, as ever,” Grantaire continues, attempting to keep his tone free of any residual sourness he might be feeling. “Worthy of the _Salle de la Bourse_ \- and not, let us hope, of _une salle dans La Force_ in the fullness of time. Should I expect to be called upon in the next few weeks for any repeat performance, or will you be busy playing to a more discerning public?”

Enjolras, sprawled on his back, makes no reply, although his mouth is softened by the trace of a smile. Grantaire watches his eyes drift shut, his face returning in repose to sculpted marble, and feels the usual uncertain, not to say unfamiliar, sense of accomplishment in having temporarily rendered him so pliable and content, regardless of the method employed to do so. 

Like so many aspects of Enjolras, this is something Grantaire will never quite succeed in understanding, but something he is willing to resign himself to. In moments of conceit, he would like to imagine that lending his assistance in whatever games Enjolras feels the need to play is as great a service as any in the grave and serious realms of insurrectionary agitation which he has lately tried and failed to do for the man, but he has little hope that Enjolras will take a similar view. On the verge of sleep, he reminds himself that scenes like tonight's serve, at least, to make Enjolras aware that there are times when Grantaire can be capable of rising to the occasion.

**Author's Note:**

> Written vaguely for a kinkmeme prompt: http://makinghugospin.livejournal.com/13775.html?thread=11422415#t11422415
> 
> This was meant to be casual PWP, but then (astonishingly!) angsty complexities crept in.


End file.
